For Everything a Reason
by inoubliable
Summary: Some vital cord inside him frays and snaps when the cannon sounds, and the ensuing silence deafens him, or maybe it's the blood rushing in his ears, blood that's warm and running and alive, blood so unlike what's still seeping from Clove's head.


Title from **For Everything a Reason** by Carina Round.

_Please do be so kind as to leave a review._

Cato doesn't like Clove.

Not at first, not at all. The first time he meets her, she claims that he's overconfident and too self-involved, and one of her precious knives slices through the air in his direction. She misses – she wasn't nearly as talented back then – but Cato never forgets what it was like, riling her up to the point of such uncontrolled anger. It was fun at first, but... well, no. It's still fun.

It's just more dangerous now, and in a way, he likes it more like that.

But that doesn't mean he likes _her_.

xxxxx

Cato doesn't volunteer to save her.

Why should he? She volunteered herself. Everyone does in their District; in a place where they're all trained practically from birth to win the Games and live in eternal glory, no one allows themselves to look weak by not speaking up. She just got there first. He still doesn't like her, but he has to admit, she's very quick. Her reflexes are top-notch. She's one to watch out for, and he appreciates that.

So, no, he doesn't volunteer to save her. He volunteers for himself.

The chance to kill someone like her, all smooth and sleek and skilled, is just an added bonus.

xxxxx

Cato doesn't like the way the others look at her.

More specifically, he doesn't like the way she _doesn't_ look at him.

It's a creeping, ugly feeling that climbs his throat constantly during the few days they have to train with the other tributes. He takes it out on dummies and, when that's not enough, on whosoever is close enough. His knife goes missing at one point, and that's as good a reason as any to lose his cool. He doesn't care about the knife, though, not really. What he cares about is how Clove ignores his outbursts and calmly throws her knives into the dead-center of the mannequin's would-be heart, hardly giving him a second look.

He's not used to being ignored, is all. He's too talented for that. As a Career, he's already highly-favored in the Games, but it's not just his District that has people telling him constantly what a good chance he has of coming out alive. It's his skill.

Yet Clove treats him like he's no better than that pathetic District 12 boy who spends his time painting himself into camouflage, as if that will keep him safe once Cato is coming for him.

And then there are the others, who regard her knives as if they're what to look out for, not Cato's sword, not his swinging fist. _Her_, small simple Clove. The Clove that barely looks at him over the dinner table at night, the Clove that is only at his side in Training for the sake of appearances, the Clove that has somehow made him do something he's spent his whole life training to avoid – lose focus.

Gritting his teeth, he pictures her face on the dummy he slices his sword through.

The kill is not as satisfying as it should be.

xxxxx

Cato likes watching her use those knives of hers.

Back home, back in the training center, it was annoying. She was so casual about it, so above it all – one flick of her wrist and that was it. Nothing more, nothing less. It was boring. If Cato was going to have to fight this girl to the death, he at least wanted the fight to be _entertaining_.

But then they rise into the arena and the gong sounds and they rush into the Bloodbath and everything changes. It's still a simple flick of her wrist that sends her knives flying, but it's no longer boring, because instead of that unattached, disinterested expression, there's a sudden spark behind her eyes, a keen interest in watching the blade slip through the skin of another tribute. She never missed in training, and she doesn't miss here. Her knives slice through the air, one by one, and one by one, the tributes fall at her feet.

And through it all, Cato watches.

xxxxx

Cato doesn't mind when they're the only Careers left.

It's not ideal, of course. He would much rather Marvel still be alive – it would be easy to kill him and get this over with then – and Glimmer was fun to look at, at least, but Clove... Clove is an enigma. She's not as beautiful as Glimmer was, and she doesn't smile at him with that obnoxiously happy-go-lucky grin like Marvel did – in fact, she doesn't smile much at all. She just stares into the fire and sharpens her knives and only speaks when spoken to. He wants to ask why this is, but he already knows. She doesn't want to talk to him more than she absolutely has to, because she's still counting on making it out of this place alive, and to do that, she'll have to kill him. For her to win, he must die, and that's the way of things.

Of course, she's wasting her time. She will die like all the others. Cato isn't the favored tribute for nothing, and he refuses to let everyone down. He refuses to let himself down. He's going to be the last tribute standing. He's going to be the Victor. And he is going to kill Clove.

He just wishes not talking had kept him from somehow still becoming interested.

xxxxx

Cato doesn't want her to die.

She's going to, though, and he realizes this before he has even reached her fallen, still body with a sick, cold feeling that rushes through his entire being and nearly knocks him to his knees. He can't relent now, though, he _can't_. He has to get to her. If he can only reach her, touch her, maybe he can _fix_ her –

But, of course, he can't. She's already halfway gone, and even if watching her leave him is something he can hardly comprehend, some clinical detached part of his mind knows he wouldn't bring her back if he could. There can only be one victor, and it's going to be him. Her death, untimely and tragic, ultimately changes nothing. And if she were still alive, still healthy and breathing with her skull intact and unharmed, he would simply have to kill her himself.

So he does nothing to help her. There's nothing he could do anyway.

He just takes her hand and squeezes tight and tells her to stay with him as long as she can, even as she's practically just a breath away from death.

xxxxx

Cato isn't in love with her.

But something, some vital cord inside him frays and snaps when the cannon sounds, and the ensuing silence deafens him, or maybe it's the blood rushing in his ears, blood that's warm and running and _alive_, blood so unlike what's still seeping from Clove's head.

And suddenly, all the years of kicking and scratching and fighting for this moment of being so close to the finish he can taste it are for naught.

Because instead of seeing just another tribute at his feet, just another obstacle in his way, he sees her.

He sees Clove.

And the heart he never knew he had simply shatters.

_Fin._


End file.
